The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson Read Free Book Online Page A

for the boy while he was doing it and went off to check on some nets. When they came back, the crag was submerged in water and the sea came right up to the boy’s chin where he was standing on the rock.”
    “And ever since that day,” Högni interjected, “Krákur prefers to stand on his toes.”
    “The boy was extremely well behaved after that,” Grímur continued, “but hasn’t had the guts to go back to sea ever since. Although he still doesn’t say no to a drop of schnapps, if he’s offered it.”
    “Does that mean he never leaves the island?” Kjartan asked.
    The men exchanged pensive glances.
    “Yes, I don’t remember Krákur ever going anywhere,” Grímur answered. “His wife Gudrídur was the one who traveled. She used to go to Reykjavik to visit her daughter before she developed her leg problem.”
    Kjartan turned the conversation to another subject: “So what do we do now? There’s nothing to give us any indication of who the dead man is. We don’t know of anyone being reported missing.”
    Grímur stroked the beard on his cheek. “We can write a description of the man. Describe how he was dressed. Then we can hang up a notice at the co-op. Maybe someone will come forward. We can also talk to the people on the other islands over the radio and find out if any of the farmers remember this tourist.”
    “Where can I get to a typewriter to write a description?” Kjartan asked.
    “I have a typewriter at home. Let’s go back to the house. I think I’m getting hungry.”
    As they walked down the slope, Kjartan was still pondering what lay ahead.
    “The district magistrate spoke about dispatching the body down south on the mail boat on Saturday. But how will it be transported from Stykkishólmur to Reykjavik? Does someone need to follow it maybe?” he asked.
    “I guess so. The casket will go on the bus if there is room. Otherwise, there’s the co-op van. The police officer in Stykkishólmur will take care of that for us somehow,” Grímur answered.
    Kjartan nodded. “That’s probably the best thing. I’ll also talk to the magistrate tomorrow about any further arrangements,” he said.
    Ingibjörg received them with a ready dinner: boiled puffin breast with potatoes and a knob of butter. Once again the table had been set for three in the dining room and the woman did not sit with them any more than she did at lunchtime. This time the meal was silent. It was eight o’clock and the radio was turned on. The evening news was being broadcast. The newsreader was giving an update of Soviet leader Khrushchev’s latest disarmament proposals. Then there was a piece about an all-night session in the Icelandic parliament before the imminent summer recess.
    Kjartan had gotten his appetite back and ate well. In fact, he’d never eaten puffin before and preferred it to the taste of the seal meat he’d had earlier that day. The news ended and Grímur turned off the radio.
    “That’s politics for you,” he said. “You’re better off being neutral when those superpowers are at each other’s throats. But here in Iceland it’s the Progressive Party you should be voting for,” he said to Kjartan. “Young people tend to turn to socialism if someone doesn’t set them straight. And the Conservatives are even worse.”
    Högni responded with an indulgent smile and gave Kjartan a furtive wink.
    “I think Khrushchev is just a Progressist,” said Högni. “There aren’t any real communists left anymore, not since Comrade Stalin died.”
    “He’s only kidding,” Grímur said to Kjartan. “Högni is the biggest Progressive I know. He just hasn’t realized it himself yet. It’s the same story with a lot of people who waste their time trying to vote for other parties. Don’t let it sway you, lad.”
    That was the end of the political debate, and the men walked out of the house with coffee in their glasses.
    The sun was setting in the sky in the west, and there was a chill in the air.
    “How many